


Red right hand

by Anonymous



Series: metuendum [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, I’m bad at tags, Poor Arthur man, Rape, SO, campbell is a creep canonly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Campbell was holding his jaw. At first the grip was tight, threatening. Then it loosened, fingers slipping from beneath his chin across his cheek, thumb wiping at his lips. He was smirking again. Arthur’s nostrils flared, temper rising, even more enraged that he couldn’t act apon it, tied to the chair like an invalid.OrWhen Campbell had Arthur at his mercy in the first episode he did more than just beat him.
Series: metuendum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609894
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33
Collections: Anonymous





	Red right hand

**Author's Note:**

> So each work will vary in how soon after the previous occurred but ill clear that up in the notes lol. Essentially this is straight after it happened. As we see against Polly, Campbell enjoys taking power away from someone in this way so I wondered what would happen if he did so against Arthur as the most ‘dangerous’ of the peaky blinders, Campbell would be sending a message. Anyway, obvs this shit is gonna be dark so a warning - or just read the tags but yano.

Arthur was bloody, face tight from the swelling and his own taught muscles. His eyes flickered towards Ada, who pottered over him, going on about nursing and what not. Polly was watching him though, eyes sharp and all seeing, as always. It made Arthur’s skin itch. He shifted in his seat. 

"Don’t make me laugh, it ‘urts me face," Arthur mumbled, voice half catching in the back of his throat. 

Tommy had come in, said his piece and pressed alcohol against his wounds. Arthur had murmured a brief regurgitation of the Inspector’s offer, not really playing much mind to the words he was saying, nor to the dismissive response his brother gave. Tommy met Polly’s eyes for half a moment before his gaze drifted back to Arthur, his own stare down turned, unusually quiet. His hands kept clenching and unclenching, red with the blood from his face. 

Tommy frowned, head tilting, "You alright, brother?" He asked, "you hit your head harder than you thought?" He lit his ciggerate, frown deepening when his only response was an unacknowledged silence. "Arthur?" He repeated, voice harder. 

Arthur jumped, head snapping up. "What?" He mumbled gruffly. 

"He asked how hard you hit your head," Polly was watching him closely now, with a gaze that burned. Arthur clenched his jaw, shrugging with stiff nonchalance. She thumped the table half heartedly, a brief attempt to gain a meaningful response. She regretted it instantly though, as the man almost seemed to flinch at the sound. Tommy seemed to notice also. He took a step forward, shoes scuffing. 

"Don’t know," Arthur’s cheek twinged, "don’t remember." He clarrified, wincing at the sting that came from speaking. 

"What do you mean, you don’t fucking remember?" Polly questioned, brow raising when yet again, Arthur played her no mind, stiffly forcing himself to his feet. Tommy moved to help him but Arthur quickly hauled his arm from reach, nostrils flaring. He took a cautious step, grimacing as he took another, and then another. "Where are you bloody going?" Polly exclaimed, now on her feet also, but deciding to staying back. Despite the exasperation in her tone, worry was there. 

"To get fuckin’ clean." 

Tommy moved to follow him but Polly stopped him with a quiet gesture. She glanced at the chair in which Arthur had sat, and then the way in which he left. "What’s wrong with him, then," Tommy asked from beside her, hands in his pockets, ciggerate between his lips. 

"Probably just hit his head too hard, like you said." It was a dismissal from Polly, that much was obvious. 

Tommy scoffed from his nose. "I once saw our dad punch him so hard he broke three ribs and a blood vessel in ‘is eye." He said plainly, the cold look behind his gaze a practised one. "Don’t think a couple of paddy coppers roughin’ him up means much," he sniffed, sucking his cheeks. 

Polly glared at him, then. Stare poignant. She refused to reply to him, a clear explanation wasn’t one she hand in hand at that moment. Tommy had stayed for a little while longer, before leaving, calling an unreplied goodbye to his elder brother. 

Polly made her way to the bathroom, hearing the low pour of the sink tap. She knocked on the chipped door with the back her knuckle, resting her temple against wood. "Arthur," she called in, "Arthur, if you don’t speak to me I’m gonna break this fuckin’ door in," the lightness of her voice stopped the words from sounding harsh.

"I’m washin’ me ‘ands," he called back. 

"Sounds like you’re havin’ a jolly good scrub to me," Polly half mused, the sound of rough flannel audible even through the door. "Can I come in?" 

"No." 

She suppressed a roll of the eyes. "I used to watch your mother bath you naked, you know." 

There was a long pause. “Pol," Arthur called, though his voice was quiet. 

Polly’s frown softened. "Yes, love." 

"Could y’grab me some of my clothes," Polly tapped the door in brief acknowledgement, hauling a pair of his night wear from a sprawl of clothes. 

Arthur heard her walk away, the sound of her distancing footsteps calming him slightly. The skin of his hands were red still, though now from his scrubbing rather than blood. He looked up into the mirror above the sink. He was pale, sickly looking, eyes as red as the cuts on his face. He scowled, running his calloused fingers across the crack in the glass. It had come from Arthur’s own elbow, years ago, from a childish throw of them arms in retreat of his namesake. He clenched his hand, a shaking fist forming. The buzz that always lay beneath his skin was growing, a means to push his always tipping temper. He could see the bruising on his face through the dust of his reflection, just as he could feel the hands that had put them there. 

He reeled back, punching the glass. 

It shattered in an instant. He pulled away, half the shards scattering across the ground, the other half seemingly imbedded into his fingers. His bare chest heaved, breaths painful through the ache of his injured ribs. Christ, they had done a number on him alright, Arthur thought bitterly to himself. 

"Arthur?" Polly sounded panicked, even through the middle of the door. "Fucking hell, Arthur, what on Earth is going on?" Arthur looked down at his bleeding knuckles, the tremors in his wrists only growing. 

_"I’m not lyin’," the words barley wrestled the swell of his lips. The inspector, the Irishmen, smirked, taking an easy step towards him. Hands in his pockets he glowered at him, eyes dark with something other than distain. Bemusement, perhaps._

_"I know," he had replied. Easily._

_Arthur scowled, forcing his chin up to meet the man’s eye. "Then why," he clenched his jaw. "Am I still here?" He flared his nostrils._

"Arthur fucking answer me or I swear to god I’ll break this door in two!" 

Her voice hauled him back. "What?" 

She exhaled. "Fucking hell. _Arthur_ , what was that bloody noise?" 

"I dropped the mirror," he said simply, the blood seeping from his hands growing thickly. He moved to the tap, allowing the room warm water push away the strings of crimson. Polly questioned his words but Arthur played no mind. The sting of the water was a pleasant distraction from the noise between his temples. The buzz beneath his skin. "Did you get my clothes?" 

"Yes, I got you’re bloody clothes." Polly muttered, the sound of ruffling fabric audible through the door. 

_Campbell was holding his jaw. At first the grip was tight, threatening. Then it loosened, fingers slipping from beneath his chin across his cheek, thumb wiping at his lips. He was smirking again. Arthur’s nostrils flared, temper flaring, even more enraged that he couldn’t act apon it, tied to the chair like an invalid._

_"Don’t you fucking touch me," he growled out, voice full of venom but his sound weak. Beaten down. The hand continued to caress his cheek and press into his bottom lip. "I said don’t you fucking touch me." Campbell curled his upper lip, other hand now running through Arthur’s hair, mocking him, laughing with his eyes. He tilted his head._

Arthur could feel something forcing its way up his throat. It took a moment to realise that, to his horror, it was a sob. He swallowed it back down roughly, rubbing his rough hands against his wrists. His chest burned, black ribs angry at the shuddering breaths escaping him. Arthur took a step back, hand pressing into the side wall. He exhaled slowly, breath laboured but careful. "Alright, love," Polly’s voice made him jump. He’d forgotten she was even there. She must had heard him. Arthur clenched his fists, stomach twisting. "I’ll leave your clothes folded out here, alright? I’ll leave it here. Come out when you’re dressed, sweetheart.” she said softly, lingering at the door for a moment before leaving quietly. 

Arthur’s face contorted, head in his hands. 


End file.
